Shades of Red
by Someone aka Me
Summary: Spencer Reid is thread sensitive. Derek Morgan is thread blind. Spencer loves the threads. Derek hates them. Still, they are destined to find each other, over and over. It's a strange sort of fate and its consequences. Red String of Fate!AU, MoReid.
1. Chapter 1

For my most beautiful better half, my dearest Sam. I had to post this today, because it's today so how could I not, so because of that, this is a little different than I originally planned. This is the main chapter, the next chapter will be a follow up (so also pre-season 1), and the rest will be a series of post-eps and episode AUs in this universe. I don't know how many chapters there will be.

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Spencer was fascinated by his thread from the first moment he noticed it. It strung out from his right pinky finger, out into the distance, stretching way, way North and East, too far for him to see where it ended. It stayed right there, right in that direction, always.

Spencer, being the child that he was, charted out the azimuth of the line, marked an arc for a margin of error, and examined the map carefully.

He could rule out close proximity by sheer fact of it not changing angle. Beyond that, though, he had no way of definitively narrowing it down. It could be any one of a thousand small towns or big cities in that arc. It could be any one of the millions of people who live within them.

For the moment, it became enough that the thread is a happy red.

When Spencer turned 5, things changed. The thread, which had wandered between a happy lava and a concerned scarlet, started darkening rapidly, landing on a color Spencer couldn't and didn't want to name. It resonated _scaredangrysorrypleading_ and it _hurt_.

But when Spencer tried to convince someone that they needed to help, that they needed to do something, his father wouldn't listen and his mother was having a bad day and Spencer didn't know what to do. His threaded was hurting and he didn't know how to fix it.

Spencer Reid, at five years old, stole his father's debit card, took it to an ATM, withdrew five hundred dollars and then used the card and a pay-phone to book the soonest flight in the right direction — Detroit, Michigan.

He told the lady at the desk that his grandparents were in Detroit and that he was going to visit them. She told him it was policy that she needed parental permission.

Much as he hated doing so, he screwed up his face and pretended to cry, sobbing about missing his flight and never getting to see his grandparents. It was exactly as effective as he thought it would be. The woman let him right through. Through security he stuck purposely close to the family in front of him, making sure his gaze flickered to them often, as though making sure they were still there. He wasn't stopped.

He sat beside a family in the boarding area, slipped right behind them in the boarding line, and made his way onto the plane without further difficulty. His leg, though, didn't stop twitching until the plane was in the air.

Once it was, he settled back against the seat and resigned himself to a four hour flight of boredom.

Spencer had the sort of mind that, faced with a complete lack of stimulation, would drive him mad. Faced with such a cheerful option, he asked a flight attendant for a map and a pen.

Carefully, he charted the arc of their flight. He asked the flight attendant about wind speeds and pressure variations along their path. Bemused, she answered vaguely until Spencer interrogated her for specifics. He used this information to mark the times that they would be at each interval of the arc. He shaded in his originally calculated area. Then, at each fifteen minute interval, he charted the angle of his thread using his compass (the one he'd started carrying in case his thread ever moved — it never had, but now he was moving in relation to it). Charting the changes in angle as he moved along the arc made things simple.

By the time he landed in Detroit, Spencer knew where his threaded lived, because all the lines converged in one place — Chicago. The only problem with that, was that nearly 10 million people lived in the greater Chicago area, and Spencer had to locate _one_.

First, of course, he had to get there.

Figuring there was no use in changing what had worked once, he booked the flight over the phone again.

This time, though, he took one look at the man behind the desk and he knew that crocodile tears weren't going to work twice.

He found the computer area for traveling businessmen and painstakingly typed a letter in his father's voice, granting him permission to fly to see his grandparents in Chicago. When it came out of the printer, he signed it, mimicking his father's signature exactly from memory.

The man at the desk took the letter without issue, filed it, and gave Spencer his ticket.

.

Spencer used the plane's trajectory over Chicago proper to narrow down his search area to the South Side.

He took the blue line L train into downtown Chicago and then transferred to a southbound red line subway, paying for the tickets easily with the cash he had on hand.

He took the train until his thread was pointing straight east and got off at the next stop.

It was almost three days after his thread had gone dark. Spencer was exhausted — having slept only in fits on planes and hard airport seats — which he knew wasn't the safest state of mind when wandering straight through gang territory that he was completely unfamiliar with, but at this point, nothing was going to stop Spencer from finding his threaded. He wasn't sure how he was going to help, but he intended to try.

Five blocks from the L, he was stopped by a kid at least twice his size. "What're you doing here, squirt? You don't belong."

Spencer looked him in the eye. "I'm finding my threaded. Trouble is brewing."

The kid looked at Spencer's right hand reflexively. "How can you know that sort of thing?"

"I'm thread sensitive. For example, you haven't met yours yet. But don't worry — she's quite content, for now."

The kid gave Spencer a skeptical look. "First part was a lucky guess. Second could be a lie, all I know."

"Please." Spencer was not afraid to swallow his pride for this. "Please. I only want to find my threaded, to help. Besides, what damage could I possibly do?"

The last line seemed to get through, because the kid shrugged and let Spencer pass.

The sky grew darker and darker. Spencer had begun his trek in fading light, but it was rapidly darkening. Raised in Las Vegas, Spencer knew the streets weren't the best place to be in the dark, but he didn't know where to stop, so he kept walking, kept following his thread, and kept to the shadows.

Almost two hours and about fifty strange looks later, the sun was gone but his string had finally stopped. He walked all the way around the house to confirm it. His threaded was inside this house.

Spencer didn't know how to act. Didn't know what the right thing to do in this situation. Didn't know exactly what time it was, even — only that it was late.

So, naturally, he knocked.

After a long pause, a woman with chaotic brown hair opened the door. She blinked at him.

"Hello?"

"Hello," Spencer said. "I'm following my thread, because it looks unhappy. It led me here."

She blinked again. "Oh." She looked down at his thread, which did indeed stretch into her house. "Well, you'd best come in then."

The woman introduced herself as Fran Morgan and immediately set the coffee machine. She seemed rather astounded when Spencer told her he'd come from Vegas.

"Alone?"

"No one would take me. But it wasn't right; I could feel it. It wasn't right, and I had to fix it."

"What do you mean, it wasn't right?"

So Spencer had to explain his thread sensitivity again, and how the color had gone _wrong_, because he didn't know how else to describe it.

"Please, can I just... Please."

"It's the middle of the night!"

"But it still isn't right. I want to help."

But Fran Morgan shook her head. "Tomorrow. For now, we're all going to get some sleep."

She laid out blankets on the couch for Spencer and kissed his forehead, seemingly out of habit. "Sleep, child. You're safe here."

.

Spencer awoke to the sweet smell of syrup and the sound of Fran humming in the kitchen.

She smiled at him, asked if he wanted any pancakes, and then said, "If it's Derek, you'd best not tell him. Sarah and Desi are total romantics about the threads, but Derek hates them."

Spencer was the one left blinking this time, but he nodded and asked how he could help with breakfast. He was setting the table when other children started filing in.

The first was, apparently, "Desi."

"Mama, why is there a scrawny boy at our table?"

"Be nice, Desiree!"

"Yes, Mama. Mama, why is there a strange boy at our table?"

Fran rolled her eyes, but she was laughing as she did so.

"He's following his thread, Desi."

Desi turned to Spencer. "Why're you following it so early?"

Spencer shrugged. "It's a long story."

Desiree looked like she wanted to asked, but instead she just started helping him set out glasses. Spencer looked at his thread. It still stretched into the house.

The next one to walk into the kitchen was Sarah. "Oh, Lord," she said. "Better not tell Derek." She was staring at his thread.

"Better not tell me what?"

And there he was.

Derek Morgan was about twice as tall as Spencer, and probably over twice his age. And he was looking right at him. "Who's this?" he asked, as he immediately took half the plates from Desi and finished placing them around the table.

"This is Spencer. He's going to be here until his parents can pick him up."

"And how long is that going to be?"

"I don't know yet, Derek. They're a long way away right now."

Derek looked up from the water he was pouring into glasses. "Then how did he get here?"

In reply, Fran put a plate of pancakes in the center of the table. "Breakfast now. Questions later."

.

Fran, Spencer soon found, was a force of nature. In a shorter span of time than Spencer would've thought possible, she had three children ready for school and herself ready for work.

Then she stopped. "Spencer, do your parents know where you are?"

"Not exactly," Spencer said honestly. By this time, his father probably knew that his credit card was missing and had been used to purchase flights to Chicago.

"You have to call them."

Spencer shook his head. "They won't care, ma'am."

Fran looked at him sternly. Spencer shrugged. "They won't. Mom's in the middle of an episode; they can last for weeks. Dad probably figured out his credit card was gone before he noticed that I was."

But Fran insisted and Spencer knew better than to think he could stay in this place forever, so he called. His father answered. That meant his mother likely wasn't lucid.

"Spencer? Spencer, where the hell are you?"

"Chicago."

"I know that much! Why the hell are you in Chicago? Why did you take my card?"

"I had to get here, didn't I?"

"Did you, now?"

"Yes!" Spencer said. "I told you! I told you, but you wouldn't listen to me!"

"Spencer, you'd better get your ass back here. As soon as possible."

"All right," Spencer said, and he hung up. "He says I can stay."

Fran gave him a skeptical look, but she didn't know what was going on, didn't know why Derek's thread should be hurting when he was just up at the cabin with Carl Buford, fishing. Derek admired Carl. It didn't make sense. If Spencer could help her son, well, then he could stay for a little while. Just a little.

When Derek came back down, Fran said to him offhandedly that Spencer was coming with him to school.

"What? Mama, why?"

"Well, he can't stay here alone all day, now can he?"

"What about Desiree or Sarah?"

"Derek." Her voice was stern, sharp as steel. "It was not a question."

Spencer, not wanting to be seen as an obligation, said quietly, "I can stay here."

Derek looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. He rolled his eyes. "No. I mean, whatever. It's fine."

Spencer smiled, easy and bright. Derek's gaze lingered for just a moment, seemingly puzzled, before he shook his head and grabbed a pencil case off the floor and stuffing it into his backpack. "Well, come on then. We need to leave now if we don't want to be late to algebra." Derek made a face, but Spencer smiled again.

"I like algebra," he said. Derek looked at him.

"What sort of five year old knows algebra?"

Spencer shrugged. He'd been making his way through the curricula of a typical junior high student this year. "It's better than geometry," he said. "Geometry is _boring._"

Derek scowled as he held the door open for Spencer, but it was teasing. "I happen to like geometry!" he said in mock offense.

Spencer grinned again. Today was going to be fun.

.

In algebra, Spencer was patient. He watched from the desk beside Derek's, ignoring all of the odd looks he was getting. His feet swung back and forth. He couldn't stop grinning.

Finally, the teacher asked a question that seemed to have stumped a majority of the class. No one wanted to volunteer. Spencer raised his hand. The teacher raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"May I solve it?" Spencer asked.

The teacher looked doubtful, but he looked around and seemed to give up on the rest of the class even attempting. "Go ahead."

Spencer turned and hopped out of his desk. He walked up to the board, took the chalk, and then pulled an extra chair from near the wall. He climbed on top of it, ignoring the titters from the class.

In less than a minute, he had the problem on the board with complete work and the answer circled. He hopped off the chair and pulled it back, and returned silently to his seat. Derek was gaping at him. The whole class was gaping at him.

The teacher seemed to recover himself first. "That is… correct, Mr… um."

"Reid," Spencer offered.

"Mr. Reid," the teacher repeated. He blinked a few times before shaking himself and launching himself into and explanation of exactly what Spencer had just done.

Derek was still staring at him. Spencer shrugged. "I told you I like algebra," he said.

Shaking his head, Derek muttered, "You are one weird kid."

.

When they returned from school, Spencer was no closer to finding what had made Derek's string go dark, but he was watching it lighten. Not by much, not enough, but just a little.

Spencer understood people. He knew how they worked. He very much wanted to give Derek a hug, but he knew no thirteen year old boy would accept a hug for his own sake. He might, however, give one for the sake of a five year old.

.

When Fran came home, she was very surprised to see her Derek on the couch with a sleeping five-year-old in his arms, a Bond move on the television. At her look, Derek gave a sort of half shrug and murmured, "He got lonely."

Fran hid her smile behind her hand as she moved into the kitchen to start dinner.

.

After dinner, Derek found out that Spencer had never played basketball before and he took the five year old outside to shoot at the hoop in their driveway.

Fran wondered about it — Derek hadn't played in their driveway for years, preferring the court at the center — but she marked it down to Spencer's presence and Derek's pride. Spencer, as Derek soon found out, was a genius when it came to strategy but terrible at implementation. He could reel off the exactly angle that the ball needed to be released and with what degree of force, but he struggled to get the ball to _do_ that.

When they came back inside, Spencer was flushed, both of the boys were coated in a layer of sweat, and both of them were grinning.

.

Derek woke up in the middle of the night and almost panicked at the sensation of weight on his chest. It was only the rapid processing of the lightness of the weight that stopped him from throwing Spencer onto the floor. The kid was curled up into him, head pillowed on Derek's chest, on hand fisted in Derek's shirt.

Derek measured his breaths, feeling them slow gradually, staring at the kid on his chest. Spencer was strange. And Derek was pretty sure he'd started out sleeping on the couch. But somehow, Derek didn't much mind. Spencer was light and warm and his breaths were soft and… And he was nothing at all like Carl. Derek didn't feel pinned, he felt… protective, not that he was going to admit that to anyone.

Derek put a hand lightly on Spencer's back and fell back asleep.

.

Three days later, Spencer went home. He didn't want to, wasn't satisfied with the new red (almost the color of fully oxygenated blood after it clotted), despite the improvement. Derek hadn't told him what had changed to make it that sickening shade, but Spencer strongly suspected he wouldn't, even if Spencer told him about the threads, told him that he knew something had happened.

But Spencer's father had redialed the number that Spencer had called from several times in the last hour, clearly fed up with his son's continued absence — or, perhaps, his credit card's continued absence.

Fran put him on the quickest plane home, after that. Spencer, though, could see in her eyes when she took him to the airport that she wasn't sure she wanted him to go — she could see that something was… off, in Derek, and Spencer's presence helped, somehow.

But Fran was still convinced that Spencer's parents were missing him, so she made sure he made it through security and stayed to make sure he didn't slip back through before his flight left.

.

Spencer's thread began to make him sad. He could tell that Derek was hurting, and every once in a while he could slip away and make his way to Chicago, but his father started watching him closer, and it became, though not impossible, very difficult.

Then, when Spencer was seven, almost eight, the thread stopped turning sickly red. It wasn't a sudden thing. Over the course of several months, the thread graduated from the sickly color it had been for almost three years to a muted, subdued, but less unnerving shade. It was colored _guiltreliefsorrysorrysorry_. But that, too, faded as the months passed.

And life went on. Spencer graduated high school at age twelve, went on to college while staying with his mother. His father left. He baffled his classmates by knowing absolutely nothing about sports — with the sole exception of Northwestern University's football team.

He lost track of Derek after an injury takes him off the football field and out of the news. Spencer didn't allow himself to worry, though. He knew they would find each other again.

He earned his first BA — Psychology — and, without any idea what to do next, went on for a Ph.D — Chemistry, for variety's sake. After all, for complete brain usage, diverse stimulation was key.

Years later, Spencer found himself at the FBI Academy with only half a clue how he got there. He didn't know what to do with his life and Agent Gideon was rather persuasive. Beyond that, he wasn't even sure why he was there. The idea of him as an FBI agent was laughable, at best.

But Gideon wanted him, and Spencer got the feeling Gideon was not a man often denied the things he wanted and could achieve through sheer force of will. So he made his way — poorly — through the Academy and somehow wound up licensed and offered a job with the BAU. The Behavioral Analysis Unit. He couldn't turn it down, no matter how much he was still convinced he'd wash out in his first year.

.

Walking into the BAU on his first day was… surprising, to say the least. He'd known Derek was nearby, because the string managed complete circles at times, but he wasn't expecting…

"Derek?"

Derek's head snapped up and toward him. Spencer watched surprise wash across his face. "_Spencer_?"


	2. Chapter 2

Who can catch the Andrea Gibson reference? I couldn't resist it :)

.

"_Derek?"_

_Derek's head snapped up and toward him. Spencer watched surprise wash across his face. "Spencer?"_

.

The blonde lady at the desk beside him looked between them. "You guys know each other?"

She asked this at the exact moment Derek asks, "What are you doing here, kid?" He stood and stepped forward.

Spencer grinned and, without considering it, hugged Derek fiercely. "It's been a long time," Derek said after a moment, pulling back to look at Spencer. "You grew up."

Spencer shrugged. "So did you."

Something seemed to click for Derek at that second. "Wait, wait. _You're_ the new kid that Gideon's all happy about?"

"I… suppose I am?"

"Does someone want to enlighten the rest of us?" the lady at the desk said.

Derek grinned. "When he was, what, five?" Spencer nodded. "Five, this kid showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night. Lost in the middle of the South Side of Chicago, no idea how he got there. Stayed three days, then vanished. Few months later, there he was again. Kid showed up at our place maybe 10 times in the span of three years, then I never saw him again." Derek turned to Spencer. "What ever happened with that?

"My parents got better at keeping track of me?"

Laughing, Derek clapped him on the shoulder. As he did, Spencer watched the blonde's eyes travel from that hand to Spencer's. Spencer gave her one short head shake. She nodded, and that was that.

Spencer loved working with profilers already.

"Did you live in Chicago as well, then?" a dark haired man asked.

Spencer grinned a bit. "Nope. I lived in Vegas."

Watching Derek's jaw drop was really quite satisfying.

.

It turned out that of the team — which consisted of Gideon, their Unit Chief, JJ Jareau, the media liaison who had been first to speak that morning, Aaron Hotchner, the other man he'd met, Derek Morgan, and now Spencer — all had thread-sight, except for Derek.

It also turned out that Gideon had talked about him. Endlessly.

Spencer got to train by immersion, because three minutes after he walked into the bullpen, Gideon came out of his office and called out, "Briefing room. Now."

An hour into his first shift and he'd already left the state. Reid could tell this was going to be an interesting position. They wound up in Kansas (and what are the chances of seeing anything but corn in Kansas?) chasing after a serial killer with no perceptible type and a rapidly mounting body count.

It was… hard. Harder than he thought it would be, somehow. Maybe because seeing the body count climb meant they weren't doing their jobs well enough.

Three days later, back in Quantico, as they disembarked the plane, Derek clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, "Let me get you a drink, kid. Talk about things that are not this job."

Spencer looked up and saw Gideon looking at him with concern. Gideon nodded slowly, giving Spencer the impression that if Derek hadn't asked, Gideon was going to ask him to do something as well. He shifted his gaze back to Derek and smiled faintly.

"That sounds like a good plan at this point."

.

While Morgan drank a beer and Reid sipped at whatever Morgan had put in front of him — after asking if he was even 21, which was only mildly exasperating at this point — Morgan told him about Northwestern, about studying law and trying to play football, at first. After graduation, he'd worked in Chicago PD on the West Side for a few years before joining the FBI Academy — at which he'd done far better than Spencer in just about everything that didn't involve books.

He didn't talk about anything that happened before Spencer started showing up at his door, didn't talk about whatever had made his thread go dark, didn't talk about the threads at all.

He talked about Desi, Sarah, his Mama. He didn't ask Spencer about his family. He looked like he wanted to, but Derek was smart and he was a profiler. He figured if a five year-old had made it all the way across the country and _stayed a while_, there were probably some sensitive areas there. So he didn't prod.

That, more than anything else could've, made Spencer smile at him.

He looked like he wanted to ask how and why a five year old made it from Vegas to Chicago… but he didn't. He asked Spencer about school, about the FBI academy and safe things.

And after that he drove Spencer home, joking easily the whole way, teasing Spencer gently about his lack of car.

Spencer couldn't really help the way he smiled when he said goodnight.

.

JJ was the first one to corner him alone. Her ponytail bounced behind her as she strode into the break room where Spencer was pouring sugar into his coffee. Her smile was broad and genuine.

"How are you, Spence?" she asked easily. Spencer could't help the small startle. He'd never really been given a nickname before.

"I'm, um, I'm good, JJ, thanks. You?" He glanced down at her hand out of habit. Her thread was pulsing slowly — she hadn't met her threadmate yet.

"I'm good," she said as she filled her own cup off coffee, adding only a single pack of creamer. She laughed as Spencer continued to pour sugar into his own cup.

"You're thread-sensitve, aren't you?" she asked suddenly. "Gideon said something about it in passing. I've heard of it, but… I mean, how much can you tell? You glanced at my hand when you asked how I was; can you tell that just from my thread?"

Spencer shrugged. "Not really. I mean… all I can tell from most people's threads is the nature of their relationship with their threaded. Which, in a lot of cases, can sort of tell me how they're feeling? I don't really know how to explain it because there aren't really scientific or mathematical explanations — I can just tell, you know? I can tell you haven't met your threaded yet and I can tell Agent Hotchner is blissfully happy with his even though he doesn't show it and I…" He stopped.

Though JJ may have been a media liaison, she had worked with profilers, and she was sharp. "You said that that was all you could tell by most threads — what's the exception?"

Spencer flushed, looking down. "I… That is, I can tell a lot more from my own."

He looked up at her, but she was still smiling at him gently.

"Like what?"

He shrugged. "Like… everything. Like I can tell when he gets hurt or sad or when he feels proud or victorious or… whatever. I can _tell_. I can feel it."

"You love him, don't you?"

"I don't. Yet. I don't know him well enough. But I could. So easily." He couldn't help the small flush that spread across his cheeks as he ducked his head.

"That's not the best idea."

"I know."

"I don't know if you do, completely. Morgan likes women and one-night-stands. He is not going to be an easy person to love."

"I know that. I never asked for it to be easy. But it'll be worth it."

She shook her head, dropping the topic. "Is it weird to know that other people don't see what you see?"

"It's… It's weird to know that he doesn't. That he doesn't see anything at all, that he doesn't even know. I… I feel a bit guilty about that, sometimes."

"Wait, you haven't even told him?"

"I… um. No?"

"Spencer! Why not? I figured you just didn't want me to because you wanted to!"

"I do. I will. Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"Look, I… You know I met him when he was a kid? Well, him mom told me not to mention it. Said Derek doesn't trust the threads, for reasons I don't know. Just… She told me to be his friend, first. That's what I'm doing."

JJ looked at him and shook her head. "All right, Spence. Just… be careful."

.

Next, Gideon called him into his office. This was, perhaps, more intimidating than it was intended to be.

When Spencer entered the office, Gideon was doing paperwork. He nodded to the chair across from his desk without looking up. Apprehensive, Spencer sat.

After a moment and a half, Gideon looked up, putting his pen down.

"Dr. Reid."

"Sir."

Gideon tilted his head slightly.

"You and Derek…"

He paused, and Spencer couldn't help but apprehensively fill the silence. "I'm sorry. I honestly didn't know he worked in this department and—"

Gideon interrupted him. "I realize that. It doesn't matter. I just wanted to tell you not to let it get in the way of your job."

Spencer shook his head furiously. "Of course not, sir."

Gideon looked at him, staring intensely. "That means no stupid heroics if he's in danger, either."

Spencer blinked. He was slightly embarrassed to admit that the thought honestly hadn't crossed his mind.

What _would _he do if he knew Derek was in danger?

That question did not have the answer Gideon wanted it to have.

"I… sir." Spencer wasn't sure what he was trying to say. But Gideon is a profiler for a reason.

"Try to keep it to a minimum, at least," he acquiesced.

That, Spencer can agree to. "I will."

Gideon nodded sharply, which Spencer took to mean he is dismissed.

As he opened the door, he heard Gideon sigh behind him.

.

Garcia made an entrance. As Reid would soon learn, she had a tendency to _always_ make an entrance. It was just a part of her.

In this case, she waltzed into the bullpen, looked at Reid and Derek, and squealed. "Awww, you guys are threaded and you work together! That is so _adorable_!"

Hotch gave the dark haired girl a sharp look. Spencer couldn't help the look of panic that crossed his face. Derek looked confused, until he looked at Spencer and his eyes went wide, then narrow. After a moment, he stood up and stalked out of the room.

Spencer closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. Garcia looked crestfallen. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to ruin anything!"

Spencer was not in the mood to deal with one more person in his bullpen, one more person in his life, one more obstacle to navigate and try not to offend on a regular basis. He just shook his head and shot a pleading look at Hotch and Gideon.

Hotch looked a bit upset, but still, both men nodded. Reid nodded gratefully in return and leapt up, chasing after Derek.

Judging by the direction Derek had gone, Reid guessed where he would be in one attempt. There was a small balcony on their floor, just enough for two people, facing over the rolling hills of Virginia. Derek loved to be outside — when he couldn't be tearing things apart or building them, his third choice was always fresh air.

Derek heard Spencer's footsteps behind him, but he didn't turn around.

"It's true," he said flatly. It wasn't a question, but still, Spencer answered.

"Yes,' he murmured softly.

Derek still didn't turn. "It makes sense, really. You didn't end up Chicago on accident. Not then."

Spencer shook his head before remembering that Derek couldn't see him. "No. I didn't. I… your thread went dark. Darker than I'd ever seen it, darker than I'd seen anyone's. And I tried to tell my parents but they wouldn't _listen_. So I ran away for a while, because I wanted to help. However I could."

"How much?" Derek asked. The question was quiet, almost lost in the Virginia wind.

"How much what?"

"How much of this is because of some damn thread on my finger? I know… I know the beginning was. But, God, Spencer… Is this what all of this is about? Are you here, doing this job, because you're chasing some legend?"

"No."

Derek finally turned around, leaned against the balcony railing, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"How much?"

"I… don't know, exactly. The beginning. I sought you out when your thread went dark, you know that. I knew you were hurting. But… Derek, I was five. I wasn't expecting a fairytale. I stayed for you, partly because you were my threaded and partly because you were a twelve year old boy who let a five year old trail you at school. You were a twelve year old boy who taught a five year old how to play basketball. I found you because of a thread, but I stayed for you."

"And this? This job."

Spencer closed his eyes. "I followed you at first, in the papers. I knew more about Northwestern football than anyone would believe. But when you dropped out of the papers because of your injury… I didn't go looking. I knew you were happy, Derek. You were happy and purposeful and so was I and we didn't need to change that.

"I didn't know you were FBI. I wasn't even sure I wanted to be. I just knew I needed something more than a fourth, fifth PhD. I'd grown bored. I'm here because of Gideon, I'm here because I want to help people. I'm not here because of you."

Derek exhales and it sounds like relief. "Good." He pauses, and then, "Why… Why didn't you tell me? Not then, I get why you didn't tell me then. I was a kid, you were too. I wouldn't have taken it well. But… why didn't you tell me _now,_ Spencer?" He looks at Spencer and his face is open and wounded and it tears Spencer in half.

"I'm sorry," he says first. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I did mean to, eventually, but it just… When I was a kid, your mom told me you hated the threads. Hated everything they stood for. So I didn't… I didn't want you to hate _me_, Derek." Spencer knew he was wearing his heart on his face, but he didn't care. Not right now. This was more important than pride, more important than anything.

Derek sighs. "I did hate them. I… do. My father was killed because a man robbed a bank for the woman on the other end of his thread — a woman he didn't even love. He just thought he was supposed to. People use the threads to _justify_ the things they do, as though they're no stronger than a stupid little string on their finger."

"People are wrong. Look, I know people think the threads are supposed to mean your perfect significant other or whatever, but they're not quite right. If you really look at all the legends behind them — the threads show you the other half of your soul. That doesn't have to mean… It doesn't have to mean anything, really. It just means you will _fit_."

"Spencer-"

"Please, Derek, let me finish or I'll never get this all out."

Derek nods.

"The threads don't mean you'll be perfect — we know that, with our jobs. How many times have we had to arrest a thread-mate? Too many. But they mean that the potential is there. Which, really, is where most people go wrong, because they expect the threads to mean that everything is going to be perfect and–" Morgan coughs and Reid flushes, ducking his head. "I'm getting off topic. Anyway… Look, I guess what I'm trying to say is I don't want anything from you, Derek. I just… want you, here, in my life, not hating me. I was happy without you knowing because I don't need anything more than right now."

After a moment, Derek asked, "Are you done?"

Reid nodded.

"Look, kid. The fact is, I don't think life works like the fairytales, where thread-mates meet each other and live happily ever after. I think life is a place where thread-mates love each other and kill each other and some little red thread shouldn't be justification for either of those things."

Reid can't help the smile spreading across his face. "I get it, Derek. I do. Trust me, I know best of all that threads don't mean a happily ever after."

Derek takes a step forward, crossing the threshold that Spencer never did. "But if it takes a pretty red thread on my finger for someone to tell us that we're being idiots and dancing around each other, then… well, then that's what it takes."

Spencer gapes at him, not entirely sure he's understanding correctly.

Derek quickly answers that question by stepping forward once more, curling a hand around Spencer's neck. The angle is wrong, Spencer too frozen to lean down at all, Derek forced to push up a bit, but then Derek's lips are touching his and it's weird and Spencer's brain won't shut up, analyzing Derek's words and the places where he needs chapstick and the exact number of minutes it's been since he's brushed his teeth until Derek pulls back just a bit, says, "Shut up. You're thinking too loudly," and presses their lips together again.

And Spencer's brain goes mercifully, miraculously silent.


End file.
